


you can't take the sky from me

by chuchisushi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Gen, Pre Relationship, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:39:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Altair grows wings and is displeased about the entire process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Assassin's Creed Kinkmeme:
> 
> [...] Assassin of your choice has just come into their heritage and gained wings (or it's brought on by the Apple/whatever.) Preferably w/ gradual lead up to the wings coming out; with fever, aches, pain, and refusal to rest (because they're stubborn, insisting they're healthy, and collapsing from fever/exhaustion wasn't anything. Really.) Then delirium sets in, the wings painfully and bloodily come out, and everyone is horrified and worried said Assassin won't live through this.
> 
> But they do survive, but the realization that they aren't fully human is quite a blow to the Assassin's mental state. Cue attempts to rid themselves of their new appendages - plucking/cutting feathers off, attempts to remove the wings entirely, etc.
> 
> If the Assassin eventually accepts their wings, then the struggle with dealing with them on a daily basis. Steep learning curve here - wings must be cleaned/preened regularly, hard to do without a beak; just because Assassin has wings, doesn't mean they have the muscles built up in order to fly/glide with them; people believing the Assassin is an angel sent from God, or some sort of demon that needs to be dealt with, permanently. [...]

He does not see the appeal in the treasure that had been freed from Solomon's Temple; to Altair, it is nothing more than gold, something that is fought over but ultimately useless to the dead. Still, as he rides to Acre, he flexes his hand; he'd touched it when Al Mualim had showed it to him, out of curiosity, had felt nothing but the coolness of its metallic surface.

He shakes away the thought that, in that first instant of contact, he'd felt a jolt like the way the air itself crackled when lightning struck nearby zing through the entirety of himself, from his hand through his bones, spreading across his body like fire.

No; it had disappeared in an instant, and he'd snatched his hand away. Nothing had come of it, and nothing _would_ come of it, because the entire thing had all been something he imagined--his own attempts to put weight on the treasure that had de Sable ambushing them, that had the blood and abilities of brothers soaking into it.

No, nothing had come of this treasure except pain, and Altair turned his thoughts back to his task at hand, determined to carry out Al Mualim's orders.

\--

Altair notices nothing as he tracks Sibrand's influence across the city; his aim is true when it comes to guards, and he keeps out of sight as he gathers information, stalking people across the city before returning to the Acre Bureau. He exchanges what he's learned for a feather, and seeks out Sibrand at the docks, watching from afar as the paranoid man slaughters an innocent.

He bites the inside of his cheek and waits through his death. There are too many guards for him to attempt a rescue, even if the priest is innocent. It's more blood on Sibrand's hands, and all the more reason to end his life.

His death is clean and quick. He passes the feather through the blood that's pooled, and makes to stand, when a flash of pain spikes through his skull, enough to blind the world to him in a rush of white; he staggers for a moment, lost inside his own senses, before he manages to right himself enough to duck the blade of a guard.

For once, Altair runs instead of engaging the man--his sudden weakness has him confused, rattled. This is something that has never happened to him before, and he is singularly unequipped to handle it; his body, honed to a knife's edge, a weapon in its entirety, has betrayed him.

Altair runs, and tells himself that it's only prudence instead of fear.


	2. Chapter 2

He repeats to himself it's nothing, a fluke, but by the time he's riding back to Masyaf, his head throbs to the beat of his heart in a persistent, lingering ache that hurts like a blade-wound. Altair can ignore it, the same way that he's learned to ignore similar injuries until they healed, but that doesn't mean he enjoys it; it's a distraction, a strain upon his mind, and he wishes it would go away as soon as possible. How is he to accomplish his task when the very sun agonizes his eyes, even under the shade of his hood? When fresh throbs of agony make his hands shake? When the growing soreness in his bones makes him want to stretch out in the sun like an oversized cat and sleep? It's  _weakness_ , weakness that he cannot afford, and what an inopportune time to fall ill. It's strange and unseasonal and Altair had always kept in the peak of health before, but comparing it to the fevers that came with injuries is his only reference to his current pain, so he tells himself that it's merely that he fell one too many times in the water at the docks, that it's been cold at night, that this isn't the treasure's doing at all.  
  
He's not quite sure he believes himself, but he clings stubbornly to his explanation.  
  


\--

  
Al Mualim speaks in circles, riddles, and Altair quells his growing annoyance with the roundabout talk, resisting the urge to snap and tell the man to get to the point; his head hurts, he has another rank and target, and even the discussion of the Order's Creed merits nothing more than a passing moment of interest from Altair.  
  
But at last, he is dismissed, and he takes off from Al Mualim's presence like an eagle loosed, en route to his next target.  
  


\--

  
The rafiq in Damascus had always been friendly to Altair, even when he'd newly lost his ranks, but today his eager interest is grating against his nerves; his head throbs still, and a fine tremor has worked its way into his fingers, hands, making him doubt his aim. It is as undesirable as the rest of his annoying condition; his very bones ache at the center, as though the marrow had been replaced by ice and fire warring with each other, numbing and full of sensation in turns--it's not quite to pain, the feeling, but it's distracting in the same way his head, hands, are.  
  
So he turns down the rafiq's offer to share his stories, instead cutting straight to the point, requesting information, locations to begin his search, and departing at once once he's gained both--he is in no mood to linger.  
  
He finds one of Jubair's scholars easily enough, and chooses a perch above where he is, yelling and gesticulating at the passing masses, listens to his words. He contemplates his fingers against the stone as he waits, spreading them out and watching the tremor, before tugging at his cowl, making sure it was pulled forward as far as it could be.   
  
He hasn't realized his attention had wandered, that he'd lost time, until he registers that there's no impassioned words falling upon his ears anymore; alarmed, he sits up straight (and when had he sat down in the first place?), pokes his head over the side of the building whose roof he'd been using, to find the scholar that he'd been listening to, watching, was gone. Likely long gone as well, from the amount of dust, dirt, and scuffed footprints that are in the area that he'd been standing in; Altair curses comprehensively, furious at himself, and pulls himself to his feet, shaking out his hands. He shivers, suddenly freezing despite the sun overhead, and hunches in on himself for a moment, rubbing his hands against his upper arms to combat the chill that's seemed to have settled in his bones sometime during the time he'd lost, before scowling down at nothing and turning, leaping across roofs to find another person to shadow for information.  
  


\--

  
It takes nearly twice as long for him to find what he needs; before he drops down into the Damascus Bureau, he takes a moment to steady himself, school the discomfort from his face, resist the urge to remove the top layer of his robes off--the winter in his bones has given way to flame, and he imagines for a delirious moment that he can feel it parch and crackle his skin.  
  
He shakes the delusions off and enters the Bureau; he uses the silky length of the feather to ground himself, runs his fingers over the shaft and barbs, and repeats: "Jubair, meeting at the Madrassah El-Kallasah, Jubair, meeting at the Madrassah El-Kallasah" like a mantra, keeping himself grounded so that his aching, pounding head doesn't float away and off his shoulders.  
  
The building is easy enough to infiltrate, and he ghosts through the place like the demon he's been nicknamed (he feels like it, the vicious heat underneath his skin burns like flame), like the bonfire that Jubair stokes and feeds with words, volumes, scrolls, ink sizzling and the scent of paper smoke filling the air as Altair watches from an overlooking balcony; the flames devour one of their own, and the sickly-sweet scent of burning man infuses the air as well; he blinks once, and Jubair is suddenly alone, the remaining scholars having disappeared in the space between one look and the next.  
  
He takes the chance, drops down from above before he loses him again; his first strike shakes, misses the path he'd intended it take by several inches, but the next sinks home.  
  


\--

  
The bells ring for him as he returns to the Bureau, not in alert of Jubair's death but out of sheer carelessness; Altair misjudges the distance on a jump, falls too short and clings on the edge, feet kicking and fingers scrabbling, before the strength goes out of him and he falls, tucking and rolling as he hits the ground--sprawls out in the path of several city guards.  
  
He scrabbles, righting himself as they shout and draw blades, stumbles as he starts to run, and then gasps, nearly losing his feet once again as burning agony imbeds itself in his shoulder, arm, and Altair pushes past it, staggers but picks up speed as blood starts to soak into the arm of his robes, turns the corner and runs runs runs, climbs and jumps while rocks soar and echo in his path, and the sound of bells split the air, making the very air and his skull and the teeth in the back of his mouth ring, buzz, like the bones in his arms and ribs and spine and body.  
  
He falls into the Bureau. It's less-than graceful, the entire process, but he gives his report (mostly in the form of saying as little as possible and handing over the bloodied feather) as the rafiq tends the wound on his bicep that the guard's arrow had left. He's asleep in the pile of rugs and pillows before he even really realizes it, but the blackness behind his eyelids is at least a welcome reprieve from consciousness.  
  


\--

  
He wakes up when sunlight hits his face the next morning, stirring with a groan--his head still hurts, and his bones still buzz, fingers tremble, and the arrow wound complains at him as he moves, but his head is clearer than it had been last night. He's fine. He's  _fine_. He can do this.  
  
Altair escapes before anyone can say farewell to him, riding back to Masyaf. After this last kill, he tells himself--then he can rest, content in the knowledge of a task completed.  
  


\--

  
Al Mualim gives him the last name--a familiar one. Robert De Sable is all that stands between him and his title, redemption once more, and Altair's fingers grip the reins of his horse tighter as he rides to Jerusalem; it's fitting that where it began, it would end once more; De Sable would die by his blade, he repeats himself as the road passes by, the landscape moving about him and coalescing into a brown blur pockmarked by overbright sunlight and--  
  
\--and his head hurts.   
  
His arm, shoulder, shoulders ache, all along his spine and through his back, which is also screaming at him, the jouncing stride of his horse not doing anything to relieve the pain; the buzzing resembles a jar of flies, flies alighting on a bloated corpse, splitting it open the same way it feels as though his skin will split, cracked and dry and thin as it is, consumed by fire, and he's taking to the roofs in an attempt to escape the smell of the burning scholar that's filled his nostrils, charring meat and bubbling fat, and it's  _hot_ , so hot, the flames are so hot and he's tired, his joints and bones ache and buzz and burn--  
  
He's falling and there's shouting, and for the moment the movement of air past is face is blissful and soothing and then he's hitting the ground to a jarring instance of pain through his entirety, lattice sunlight shining mercilessly into his eyes and Malik is kneeling above him, mouth moving (but he can almost imagine the words coming out of his mouth, calling him stupid and impulsive and foolish; forgive me please; I regret taking him from you and your potential, future, pride from you) and his back  _hurts_  so, and he opens his mouth to tell him that no, he's fine, that the lost spaces inside his memory and head of space and time are nothing, that he was just distracted by the damnable  _buzzing_  underneath his skin, persistent and encompassing and attention-draining; it makes him want to claw his back open, split and tear away the skin like it's rotten and release the clouds of flies inside, and he moves to do it, fingernails catching at his clothes, except before he can dig his fingers in his skin bursts splits  _tears_  all over his back through his robes seams splitting and it's like having all his skin flayed off torn open wet muscle and white bone opened to the air like the novices that misjudged the final leap that failed to soar that faded from blue to background grey in his vision of eagles as the life fled from them the same way his blood is flowing away and into the dirt dying it red (he has to be dying why else would it hurt so) and he's screeching screaming screaming because it hurts hurts  _hurts_  and for once he can't do this he's not going to survive he's going to die and he's  _afraid_ \--  
  
  
Mercifully, the pain overfills him, and he passes out.


	3. Chapter 3

When he wakes, it's night and quiet.  
  
He's lying on his stomach in a pile of blankets, rugs, cushions, a pallet, with another blanket draped over him; he cannot help the groan that issues from his mouth when he moves, turns his head. His entire body  _aches_ , hurts in the same way his arms did when he was still in training, when he pushed himself too far and woke up the next morning with muscles sore and twinging. The ache is so distracting and curious that it takes him a moment to realize that the buzzing is gone, that his hands are steady, and that's enough to make him bolt upright, sit up in surprise, pushing himself upright and kneeling.  
  
He holds his hands up in front of his eyes to confirm, squinting at them in the faint light coming from the candle in the outside room, before allowing a grin to slice across his features--he is whole again. He can complete his mission. He can redeem himself and gain back his ranks and maybe even apologize to Malik finally an--  
  
He realizes suddenly that the blanket on his shoulders hasn't fallen off despite his movements, and he automatically puts out his hands to pull it away, lets it fall, except instead of smooth cloth, his fingers encounter the texture of feathers, bury in them, and he can--  
  
He can--  
  
Altair bolts to his feet and is out of the doorway before his mind catches up to his actions; he's still inside the Jerusalem Bureau, in a hidden back room that's only used to house Assassins too injured to make the ride back to Masyaf immediately, and Malik startles where he's working at the counter by candlelight, blotching the parchment he's writing upon, and Altair doesn't even register his curses, instead skidding to a stop before one of the fountains and leaning over, craning for a look at himself in the still reflection of the water.  
  
He screeches at the sight, and then claps both hands over his mouth instinctively before removing them both to spit out mouthfuls of curses; the sound that had come from his mouth hadn't even been a scream, not even a sound that any man would make: it had been an _eagle's_  cry, the sound bright, brittle, proud, and  _damning_.  
  
He has  _wings_. He has  _wings_ , attached to his  _back_ , and he could feel them, had felt the slide of his fingers through the base of his feathers; he quickly turns in place where he stands, craning his neck to try to get a look at them, contorts his shoulders, making them flare in response, and that's the  _strangest_  sensation he's ever felt, even more foreign than the slide of steel into his belly, even more than the crunch of an enemy's spine underneath his blade, than the slide of needle through his living flesh, closing gaping wounds--they're brown, with golden sheens and white underneath, and the longest feathers drag on the ground if they're unfurled, and at every movement, twitch, and breath, there's a corresponding shift, shiver, and flare from the wings, wings that he realizes he can  _feel_  as though it were his arm, the way his movements shift the feathers, the pull and flex of new muscles underneath the skin of his back, the wings themselves  _he has wings what happened_??  
  
He sits down where he stands. (Really, his legs give out underneath him, but he clings to his pride and maintains that it was voluntary.) The stone is cool underneath his rear, comforting in its solidity in this world that has suddenly been turned on its ear; Altair swallows a groan of despair and confusion, instead running his fingers through his hair, eyes wide.  
  
Malik deliberately scuffs his foot, and Altair's head snaps up at the sound, eyes focusing on him; the Dai has his hand on his hip, feet spread, and stares back at him with a mixture of his typical disdain and curiosity.  
  
"What happened?" Altair blurts out.  
  
"I should be asking you that question," Malik snaps back.  
  
Altair bristles, and he can feel his feathers puff out all along his wings, stand on end like an eagle manteling over prey. "If I knew what had happened, I obviously wouldn't be having this reaction in the first place--yes, thank Allah, He in his gracious wisdom has blessed me with _the fully functional pair of wings_  that I've prayed for every day!  _No_ , I have no idea what happened!"  
  
The frown on Malik's face turns into a full scowl, but he answers, "Two days ago--" ("Two days ago?" Altair thinks, with rising panic. "I've been asleep for two whole days?") "--you fell through the entrance onto the floor, raving like a madman with fever, and after attracting the attention of  _every Assassin in the vicinity_ , those--" He gestures at Altair's back, the scowl losing some force in the face of confusion. "--burst from your back. Your robes are ruined by the way, but I was able to salvage your equipment belts. Though they're a little bloodstained." Altair automatically looks towards the tile underneath the lattice; it's mostly clean, but the cracks between them are faintly red-brown.   
  
He represses a shudder as Malik continued. "I thought you were dying like the stupid fool you are--there was... a lot of blood (and here, an expression crosses the Dai's face, though it's gone in an instant), but it stopped soon after they extended fully. The exit wounds sealed without a trace; I cannot find any scars to indicate their presence." Malik tosses his head, as though shaking off a thought. "You've slept like a lazy novice since then. I put you in the back room because even your unconscious presence was a distraction to every Assassin that came here."  
  
Altair takes a moment to digest the information, then swallows and shakes his head. "What... what, if anything, have you observed about..." He gestures at his back, unable to articulate that he has  _wings_ , fucking  _wings_ , after his initial outburst. "At this point, you are likely more familiar with them than I am."  
  
Malik seems surprised by his query, but he gathers himself after a moment: "They are attached to your body as any limb would be, though the muscles seem weak. They're eagle wings." He pauses, thinking. "You are lighter."  
  
Altair's attention snaps back to him at that. "Lighter? What do you mean?"  
  
"I mean that you are not as much of a heavy sack of shit as you were," Malik snaps back. "I had to move your damned unconscious ass to the back room myself, you know, and you're  _lighter_  in the way birds are. I imagine your bones are hollow."  
  
Altair resists the urge to curse more, instead running his hands over his face and debating sitting down forever. "And your  _expert_  opinion on how they will affect my abilities in the Order?"   
  
"They do not seem to hamper you more than your massive ego does."  
  
He rolls his eyes, but withholds his opinion--there's a lingering doubt about the entire situation that makes Malik's words ring false in the face of his concerns. Yes, they may not keep him from walking, fighting, perhaps even running across rooftops, but what of his abilities as an  _Assassin_? They're massive, with what he's sure is an impressive span, and how will they affect sneaking? Going unnoticed in a crowd? His ability to eliminate a target?  
  
He grits his teeth as another thought finally occurs to him. "Majd's funeral--"  
  
"Is in a week," Malik interjects. "You have until then to get used to your new... appendages and gather information for your target."  
  
Altair sighs. A week does not feel like enough time, but it is what he has. "Very well then."


	4. Chapter 4

Malik disappears to another back room, and Altair is left alone in the starlight streaming from the lattice. There are no other brothers spending the night in the Bureau tonight, and a part of Altair is glad for it--his outburst had been loud, almost foolish, and verging on panic, none of which were good examples for the Assassin's that used to be of lower rank than him.  
  
(Though, granted, now they're his rank or higher. But that's another matter entirely.)  
  
And now, out of the sight of everyone else, he has leave to practice and learn his limits. He resists the urge to scowl or bite his lip, instead standing and rolling his shoulders, easing the tightness from several days of bedrest out of the muscles, stretches from head to toe, back, legs, arms, reaches for his toes. At every movement of his back, his... wings.... flutter and flare, in movements that feel as easy as swinging his arms and yet foreign at the same time. Everything is lighter--from the swing of his arms, to the pull of gravity when he jumps; Malik was likely right about his bones. That would cause problems of its own, to be dealt with later, but first things first...  
  
Altair takes a bracing breath and spreads both wings wide, turns his head and body to examine them in the moonlight falling from the lattice above; after a moment's hesitation, he touches them, runs his fingers through the feathers down to the skin and muscle and bone below, reaches around to run the tips of his fingers over the junction of wing-base to his back. It feels strange, unfamiliar, and yet _perfect_ , and Altair scowls, before realizing that they're trembling where they're spread, too weak to be held outspread for too long.  
  
He furls them, grumbling mentally, and feels new muscles twinge and quiver underneath the skin of his back, before shaking his head.  
  
This will.... require work.  
  


\--

  
Sunrise finds Altair still shirtless in the middle of the courtyard, but with the addition of his hidden blade and his sword; his throwing knives are discarded in their sheaths (with the addition of a few more punctures in the tapestries and wooden beams of the Bureau), the Assassin feinting and attacking at invisible enemies, brow furrowed in concentration. He's trying to acclimate himself to the weight of steel again, the way his wings pull at the air and resist forward lunges and swings that turn the body unless they're folded tightly to his back; at some point, Malik comes out into the courtyard, glares at the holes, his knives, and Altair, before throwing his hand up in the air and retreating back into the inner room, grumbling to himself about destructive, self-serving fools.   
  
Altair practices until his arms shake, then during his rest, opens and closes his wings, attempting to strengthen the muscles in his back; whenever he hears the footfalls of a brother overhead, he retreats back into the room he'd recovered in, hiding from their eyes instinctively. There's no question now that this is the work of the Apple, but that's also no reason to spread the word out for anyone to hear--as stoic as the Order is supposed to be, the  _brothers_  certainly gossip like women.  
  
(Altair tries to not think about what would happen if he cannot complete his mission to kill de Sable, for Al Mualim has no-doubt heard about his... transformation by this point. He'd apparently made quite the spectacle, and there was no way Malik could have shut the mouths of every Assassin that had passed through the Bureau at that time.)  
  
(Another part of him even wonders if he can even call them  _brothers_  anymore; is he even human now? He has the wings and voice and hollow bones of a bird, for all that he's mostly the form of a man, and with the Eagle's Vision, and the way he fights, Altair wonders in the back of his head if he's truly become the demon that the rumors call him.)  
  
(That thought is enough to make him tear at his feathers until he bleeds, scatter down and secondaries across the cushions and rage silently, cursing at the world for it's ill-fortune; it seems to be laughing at him: first Kadar and Malik's friendship, next his rank, then his pride, and now his humanity and abilities. He wonders if there will be anything left of Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad by the end of this, or if he'll become as wild as the eagles that nest atop the highest towers and have to be killed the same as any animal gone mad.)  
  
He practices with blades until he cannot, and then with his (accursed) weak wings until he cannot, and eats when Malik storms over and shoves food at him, and then goes back to practice--he  _refuses_  to be useless. He refuses to fail.   
  
He  _cannot_  fail now. There's too much to do still for him to.


	5. Chapter 5

His sleep is fitful and interrupted by half-remembered dreams; Altair wakes and sleeps and wakes and sleeps through the whole night before giving up around sunrise and rising to practice once again. His arms and back are sore, but he refuses to let the tremor under his skin betray him, limit him, shackle him, and starts off with stretches before moving to swordplay.  
  
When the sun rises and Malik emerges from his room, hair tousled and eyes sleep-bleary, he visibly stops at the doorway to the courtyard, staring at Altair for a moment before shaking his head and moving around him to wash his hand, face, rinse his mouth with the water from one of the fountains; Altair ignores him to the best of his (granted, vast) ability, the same way he chooses to ignore the shake in his arms as he swings.   
  
He doesn't think any more of the Dai until Malik reappears in his line of sight once again, scowling this time and fully dressed, with a bundle of cloth in one hand. Altair stops, lets the point of his sword fall (he tells himself it's because Malik will not leave him in peace until he pays him mind and less because of the way everything is moving from sore to hurting), fixes him with a questioning look.  
  
In silent reply, Malik shoves the bundle of cloth at him, letting go so that Altair's only option is to catch it or let it all fall onto the floor; he scowls at the Dai for that, who only smirks back at him.  
  
"Go to the market. You're not doing anything useful here and are being a distraction; get out of the Bureau for a bit." Altair untangles the cloth as Malik speaks, eventually deciphering the clothes out as an open-backed shirt and white robes, vast and resembling gear for the desert. He looks up in confusion in time for Malik to shove a coin purse and folded piece of parchment at him. "Get dressed and fetch the items on that list. I don't want to see you here for another hour. Practice climbing if you must."  
  
And with that, he disappears back into the inner room, leaving Altair with a bundle of clothes, a coin purse, a shopping list, a naked blade, and a furrowed brow.   
  
...  
  
Fine. Malik wins that round.  


 

\--

  
  
Altair has to admit that it is some sort of relief to be outside of the Bureau again; even if he's sent off to do menial errands, Malik has also provided him with an opportunity to get out into the fresh air (which, Altair admits to himself, is probably what he'd actually intended for him; not that he'd ever tell the Dai that this strategy worked).   
  
The white robes are something he's not used to, though, and it takes a moment for Altair to adjust to the way they fall and hamper some movements, the way it's harder to draw his sword from underneath, a second or two that could be fatal if he wasn't just going to the market. (There's nothing more dangerous at the market than a merchant willing to rip him off.)  
  
Malik's list is small groceries and another pot of ink, things that Altair likely shouldn't take climbing, so he aims for the nearest tower first, avoiding guards by circling around them and timing his jumps; today is not the day to garner their attention.   
  
Altair stands at the base of the tower for a long heartbeat, staring up at its walls and the sky above it, before jumping for his first handhold; the pull and burn of climbing, the moments of weightlessness, are like coming home. This, this is familiar to him, learned almost as soon as he'd started walking, running, he was climbing, walls, ropes, the occasional tree, small buildings; when he'd arrived at Masyaf, the instructors only built upon what was already there. Pulling himself up is easier now, being lighter as he is, the jumps have the added float of gravity's loosened hold, and, as Altair stands at the top of the tower, he revels in the urge to jump. There's no cart of hay below this tower, so he shouldn't, won't, but the urge is still there.  
  
He still wants to jump and, underneath his robes, his wings flex and surge, flutter and twitch, and the fantastic thought that  _maybe he can now_  crosses his mind, he can actually jump off and live and  _fly_....  
  
Altair shakes his head. No; he can't just yet. Maybe if his wings turn out to not be liabilities, if he can get their strength up, if, if, if.  
  
He shakes his head and begins his descent.

\--

  
Altair returns to the Bureau with supplies in tow, spirit lighter inside his chest; Malik looks him up and down when he hands him his supplies and smiles to himself. Altair doesn't give him the satisfaction of acknowledging it, instead retreating back to the courtyard to strip off the robes and unlace the back of his shirt so he can wriggle out of it.  
  
His arms and back still hurt, but he's had a taste of the sky, and for the first time in the past days, he feels like there's hope, that he can still belong, that this will work out. He can still fight.  
  
He can  _do_  this.


	6. Chapter 6

The next day has Malik sending him off to check the pigeon coops where the birds used by the Order flock; Altair wonders if they will react poorly to his unfamiliarity or his new... state--and they do. Just not in the manner that he expects; the birds cower at his approach, sit as silent and as still as he's ever seen them, huddled in the back of their holes like so many mice. Removing messages from them is no hard task, even with his bulky robes (and it cannot be a hard task, for Malik, with one less arm than he possess, can manage it, do it every day, or several times a day), and Altair drops back down into the Bureau with a small bag filled with rolled parchment.  
  
Malik is standing at the counter, cutting feathers for quills; on second glance, the feathers he's using are very familiar, and Altair asks as he sets the bag down, "Are those  _mine_?"  
  
The Dai gives him a flat sort of look and replies with, "You certainly didn't seem to have use of them anymore, as you left them scattered all over the cushions," which makes Altair scowl.  
  
"That still does not mean that they are yours to use!"  
  
"Then inform me before you lose them next time." Malik punctuates the statement with the knife he's using, chopping off the end of the feather weighed down in front of him.   
  
Altair eyeballs the blade warily, then gives it up as a lost cause, retreating back to the courtyard. Malik can have his messages and his feathers; Altair isn't going to risk his neck fighting with him over them. There are easier battles to be had.  
  
For that matter, Altair needs to begin collecting information--Majd's funeral is in half a week now, and solidifying his plan of action concerning his target needs to begin soon, wings or no.  
  
Altair spreads them at the thought, shaking out the feathers, and then grimaces at the feeling; it's still strange. For all that he's accepted their existence (for the moment) and the futility of attempting to wish them away (for the moment), getting used to them being there is a work in progress. But, again, his mission does not wait for him, and he must begin where he left off.  
  
He furls them again, adjusts his robes, and calls out to Malik, "If I were to hunt for information on Robert de Sable, where would I begin?"  
  
"What is the point, if you intend to intercept him at the funeral?"  
  
"In case things do not go to plan at it."  
  
"What's that: a glimmer of foresight from you?" There was a pause, then, "Hunt for where his entourage rests at night. That is the only advice I may offer."  
  
"Very well. I'll go listen then."  
  
"Be careful! I do not want the streets to be full of words of an eagle brought down by steel. Such rumors only cause trouble for the rest of us."  
  
Altair smirks to himself at the warning before clambering back out through the lattice.  
  


\--

  
That day bears no fruit, and Altair begins the next day with sword exercises; the flow and ebb of battle is returning to him, finally. It's still too slow for Altair's taste, but at least it is progress.  
  
He's sweaty afterwards, flexes his shoulders as he ducks his head underneath the water in the fountain, then hisses at the feeling of feathers sticking to his skin. He twists his head to stare at his wings, twists further to see at his back, then sighs, grumbling to himself. He can't wash feathers, right? It doesn't work that way, if he can remember correctly. That's why eagles don't swim.  
  
Right?  
  
Hmmm.  
  
Malik scuffs his foot as he comes out into the courtyard, and raises an eyebrow at him as Altair glances at him; he looks away after a moment and rolls his shoulders, feeling his wings attempt to flex before the feathers get too tacky and fail to separate. He hisses in annoyance at the sensation; just as he was starting to get used to the feelings of wings, he runs into  _this_.  
  
"Have you been preening?"  
  
Altair's head snaps back to Malik at that, brow furrowed; the Dai shrugs at him in response.   
  
"It's a fair question. You do know about preening, yes? What birds do with their feathers?"  
  
Silence stretches between them, and Malik sighs at the sheepish sort of expression on Altair's face. "I had figured as much." He pushes off of the frame, gestures for the Assassin to sit down. "Pick a wing; I will help you with the other."  
  
Altair considers resisting for a moment, before sheathing his sword and sitting, plopping down on the cushions next to the fountain; Malik sits himself behind him, and Altair feels his hand pull and open his wing, tugging it out so he can reach.   
  
Fingers begin easing through his feathers, teasing out loose ones and bits of down, rearranging and aligning them comfortably; Altair resists the sudden urge to twitter at the pleasant sensation, the cessation of the discomfort that he'd been aware of but unable to pinpoint enough to alleviate--he blames being unfamiliar with his new appendages.  
  
"Do you intend for me to do all the work, lazy novice?"  
  
He jerks back into awareness, hisses and grumbles at Malik, before unfurling his other wing and bending it forward to comb his fingers through his feathers as well, attempting to imitate the motions Malik is making; he tosses the down and small feathers away from himself carelessly, rubs his fingers together at one point, peering at the powdery substance covering the tips. It does a fair job of absorbing the moisture from his exercising, clumps and falls away with each comb of his fingers, each swipe covering the feather once again with more powder, which eases the itch and discomfort.  
  
Altair works his way up from the longest feathers back, attempts to reach further before jerking to a halt, arrested by the still-healing arrow injury on his upper arm; he growls in frustration, strains against it, before the back of Malik's hand impacts with the back of his skull, and he yelps.  
  
"Wh--"  
  
"Leave it alone; I can reach it. Collect the feathers you dropped instead."  
  
He pulls Altair's wing back, buries his fingers in, and Altair collects the feathers that he can reach, puts it in a small pile before him, all the down and small ones, and Malik remarks as he rearranges, "With all the feathers that you leave around, I could stuff two more cushions."  
  
Altair feels Malik's fingers skate over a patch where he'd torn out the feathers by the handful in the days after his waking again; they slow but do not stop, and Altair appreciates the lack of verbal acknowledgement, knowing that Malik had passed by more on the other wing. The Dai just rearranges his feathers over the empty space, skates his fingertips over the faint, rough stubble of where the feathers will grow back in, before pulling away and standing to dunk his hand into the fountain, rinsing away the powder that his efforts have gathered; Altair spreads his wings, ruffles the feathers to make them stand on-end, fluffing them up, rattles them, before folding them again.  
  
"Better?"  
  
"Better."  
  
Malik collects the dropped feathers into a corner of his robe, holds it out for Altair's pile, and retreats into in the interior room of the Bureau again, calling back to him, "We eat in an hour."  
  
Altair resists the urge to smile, reveling instead in the soft, rather warm feeling of contentment that remained.


End file.
